


you were doomed but just enough

by pearwaldorf



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Christianity, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, References to Milton, Sin Eating, Top Crowley (Good Omens), Unrequited Love, Wakes & Funerals, dunking on Pilgrim's Progress, kinda sad ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:14:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22216873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearwaldorf/pseuds/pearwaldorf
Summary: “I have to admit, this is not what I expected to find you doing here.”“Not all mischief is flash, angel. Sometimes the best kind is carried out on the sly. By the time people notice, the damage has been done.” Crowley smiles, the pleased one he gets when he feels like he’s done a good temptation or gotten one over on whoever. Aziraphale should not find it as endearing as he does.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 68





	you were doomed but just enough

Aziraphale looks at the village in front of him. He thinks the layout and description match what he was told, six, eight, a dozen places ago. But as soon as he steps within the limits of the place itself, he knows he’s found what he’s been seeking.

A place this small might not have a proper inn, but it will certainly have a watering hole. He heads for the first building that doesn’t look like a home or the church and sees a weathered sign. Some sort of flower was painted on it, although what kind or colour he’s unable to discern.

He opens the door and steps in. It’s between the noon meal and tea, so the place is rather empty, save for the barkeep and an old drunk in the corner. The barkeep looks up and motions him over. He takes a seat and a mug of ale is placed in front of him. It’s adequate to quench his thirst, although he will probably order wine later.

“We’ve stew if you’re hungry,” the barkeep says. She has a lined face that could be a hard-wearing late 30s to a comparatively easier late 50s. He’s never been good at guessing human ages.

“Thank you,” he replies. “That would be most welcome.”

She dishes up a bowl of hearty-looking stew and sets it in front of him. It’s well flavoured and rich with beans and root vegetables, and he practically inhales it. He feels like a whole new angel when his spoon scrapes the bottom.

“What news have you heard?” the barkeep asks. He passes along what he knows of the current political situation, the health of the King.

“And now I ask you in turn, goodwife. Have you knowledge of a tall, thin man with red hair and dark glasses?”

She nods. “That would be Master Crowley. Keeps to himself, mostly, unless his services are needed. Been busy, he has.” Her expression turns grim. “‘S been a hard year round these parts. Bad winter, rot in the grain. Too many taken, especially among the little ones.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Not just for them, but Crowley too. He did always get so upset when children were involved.

She shrugs, grim acknowledgement of how life goes. "We pray the Lord’s merciful, and that Master Crowley does his job, so the departed go on to their just reward.”

He thanks her again and leaves far more coin than necessary for his meal.

Once he’s outside, it’s trivial to cast out for Crowley’s presence and follow it to its source. It leads him to a small hut on the outskirts of town, accessible enough if needed but far enough to be mostly left alone. The door is ajar, and he knocks.

“Has the cooper in the next village finally expired? Just let me get my things.”

Aziraphale pushes the door open. Crowley lounges on a bed, reading a book. He’s in a rougher, homespun version of his usual outfit, but no coarse fabric could dim the brightness of his hair or the golden glint of his eyes. Aziraphale stands in the doorway, drinking in the sight of him. It’s been decades since the Globe, and he didn’t realise how much he’d learned to ignore Crowley’s absence until he faced him again.

Crowley closes the book and tosses it on the bed. He goes to a cupboard and grabs a flagon and two cups, taking them to a table. Aziraphale sits in the other chair, and Crowley pours them both some wine.

“Angel,” he says. “Bit soon to see you again. Thought that blessing in Aberystwyth would have held for a century at least.” His voice is light, nonchalant, but forcefully so; like he’s trying to pretend he’s not affected by Aziraphale’s sudden appearance.

(They’ve exchanged notes, the occasional letter, but it’s not the same. _Word of trouble has made its way even to this end of the world. Keep yourself safe, angel._ It’s absolutely normal to keep a note with well-wishes from your best friend in your pocket. And to reread it until it falls apart at the creases. And then keep the pieces in a little envelope.)

“I wasn’t expecting to run into you,” he lies. “I was told to investigate the suspicious lack of funerals recorded in this region.” This, at least, is true.

“And what makes you think I have anything to do with it?” Crowley smiles, thin and serpent-sharp.

"I know you," Aziraphale says. "And this seems like the sort of thing you'd get yourself involved in."

"You don't even know what I'm doing here. How can you accuse me of meddling when you haven't the faintest idea?" He takes a drink, looking at Aziraphale over the rim of his cup. It’s accusatory in a way that dares Aziraphale to change the steps of the dance they’ve negotiated over the centuries. _This is bollocks and you know that, whether you’re willing to admit it or not. Do something about it._

“It’s what you do,” he insists. “If there’s mischief to be made, the church to muck about with, you’ll be there.”

“Thought we’d established understanding the church and the side of right weren’t always the same thing after the Inquisition.” Crowley takes a long gulp. “My mistake.”

Something uncomfortable prickles under Aziraphale’s corporation. It must be the wool of his cloak, making it overheat now that he’s not out in the cold. He takes a drink of wine. It’s perfectly decent, but there is no pleasure in the consumption.

They sit there for a little while, the gentle thump of their cups against the table the only noise. It is not a companionable silence, and it presses uncomfortably over them both.

“What are you reading?” Aziraphale asks finally.

“Pilgrim’s Progress. It’s shite. There’s no elegance to it at all, in structure or prose.” He glowers at the book, as if he could change it into something better through sheer force of will. (Aziraphale’s surprised he hasn’t, if he dislikes it so much.) “I miss Milton.”

“You say that because he was obviously fond of the serpent,” Aziraphale replies. (Neither of them had met the man, but Aziraphale had sent him an admiring letter.)

“Well, yes. He could also bloody write. And he had a fine mind with an eye towards the future. Times are changing, angel, and it would be useful to have people like him thinking about such.”

“Admiration of his work doesn’t mean you need to emulate it, my dear. I find it difficult to imagine you as a creature of hermetic contemplation.” _Which is to (not) say, I missed you. The entire realm has been in upheaval for decades, and I would have liked your steadying influence._

Crowley opens his mouth to say something, but a knock at the door interrupts him. A teenaged boy, gangly in a growth spurt, stands in the entrance.

“Master Crowley.” He nods respectfully. It takes him a moment to notice Aziraphale. “Sir.”

“Who is it, George?” Crowley asks. He gets up and puts on his cloak and glasses. The boy did not run screaming, so Aziraphale assumes there is some glamour on his eyes, just in case. (He wishes Crowley would keep it on for the humans, if only so Aziraphale could quietly admire them to his heart’s content.)

"Godfrey Brewerson, sir. ‘Twas very sudden. If you need a horse, my da will lend you his.”

“Not necessary, but thank him for the offer. I’ll make better time on foot, the way me and the things get along.” George nods and leaves. Aziraphale tries not to smile. Crowley has never been good with horses.

“C’mon then, angel. We have a bit of a walk ahead of us.” Crowley holds the door open impatiently.

“Where are we going?”

“You wanted to know what I've been up to, yeah? Now you’ll get to see.”

—

He sits in a hut, utterly ignored by everybody around him. They’re in a neighbouring village, in the Brewerson home. It’s fairly comfortable as places like this go—warm, large enough for an extended family.

The man of the hour, one Godfrey Brewerson, lays in repose on the table. From the conversation he’s overheard, he was just past five and thirty. His heart seized one day in the field, and he dropped dead before he had a chance to shout. _A tragedy_ , people said; _a terrible shame. He was so young._

A slow, steady stream of people come and go through the house. They offer condolences to the bereaved: parents, sister and brother-in-law; a young nibling who clings to their mother, eyes wide at the unusual activity. There is a small pile of food on a shelf in the corner, easy to consume with little or no preparation. These people may not have much, but they share what they have to make a difficult time easier.

Some mourners leave tokens on or near the body: a flower, a pebble, other small but significant mementos. Occasionally they whisper into the ear of the corpse or kiss it on the forehead. (Aziraphale has handled dead bodies before. They get cold so quickly. He wonders if it is unpleasant to humans, to be reminded of how fragile their mortal vessels can be.)

Throughout this, Crowley stays on the periphery, keeping an eye on the family. He exchanges polite greetings with those who acknowledge his existence, but a fair number also take care to avoid him. This does not bother him, although Aziraphale is on his behalf.

The number of people coming and going slows and then stops as evening fades into night. Crowley exchanges a glance with the family, and the mother steps forward.

The door wrenches open and a man in his late 20s or early 30s leans against the jamb like it’s the only thing holding him up. When he sees the body, he claps his hand over his mouth. His eyes are bright with unshed tears.

The sister is the first to react. “Robert? Where have you come from?”

The young man names a village on the edge of the district. At the best of times, it is a long way from here.

“Did you ride?” The brother-in-law asks.

“I did,” Robert replies quietly.

“I’d best see to your horse then, if you don’t want to walk back.” Before he leaves, he rests a hand on Robert’s shoulder, squeezes.

"Thank you, Samuel."

Robert looks to the rest of the family. “I came as soon as I heard. May I?”

“You’ve always had a place here, if you wanted it,” the father says, gentler than Aziraphale expected.

Robert goes to the table, curving a hand to the side of Godfrey’s face and pressing their foreheads together. He closes his eyes and whispers something, tears running down his face.

Aziraphale walks outside. This is not for a stranger to witness. Waves of grief emanate from the house, loud as a wailed dirge for someone who knows how to listen. The intensity of it is almost unbearable, and it’s his turn to lean against the house lest he collapse.

Samuel comes back from the stable and glances inside before looking at Aziraphale. He takes out a flask and offers it. It’s whisky, rough and strong. Aziraphale takes a mouthful and does not cough before handing it back, nodding his thanks.

“The two of them. Were they close?”

He nods. “Inseparable when they were young, thick as thieves as teenagers. Don’t really know what happened, but one day Robert’s da just packed him off. Said he’d found the boy a rare opportunity to learn a good trade. He’s a fine smith, and that’s how he makes his bread and butter; but his heart’s truly in the delicate things: rings, bracelets, chains so airy you’d think they were spider silk.”

“And Goodman Brewerson?”

The other man shakes his head. “Broke his heart, Robert getting sent away. Staggered around like a bird with a torn-off wing for a long time.” He takes a sip from the flask. “I know what the Book says, and I’m a God-fearing man. But whoever wrote it down like that would have thought twice if he’d seen Godfrey at his worst.”

“He was fortunate to have such understanding family.”

Samuel grunts. “Wasn’t always as fine with it as I am now. Bess—my wife—made it clear she wouldn’t accept my troth if I didn’t embrace all her family. Not just tolerate, but accept and love as my own.” He smiles ruefully. “‘Twas fortunate for me I was besotted enough to do anything for her hand, including thinking about beliefs I’d never felt the need to question before someone brought them up.” He looks at Aziraphale. “It’s something I wish for everybody, if it can transform their lives a fraction of the way it did mine.”

Bess comes to the door. “It’s time,” she says.

Unable to refuse politely, Aziraphale goes back in. Robert and the rest of the family are arranged in a loose semi-circle round the table. Crowley stands at the middle. Samuel takes the place next to Bess. He looks at Aziraphale meaningfully, indicating the space next to him.

“I couldn’t possibly—” There’s panic rising in his chest, far more than appropriate for being asked to take part in a strange human death ritual. He steps back until he’s almost out the door again.

The mother approaches him. She’s a short woman, but brimming with presence that makes her seem bigger than she is.

“What’s wrong, love?” Even through grief, she radiates solicitousness and concern.

“I shouldn’t be here. This is private; I’m intruding—” These things are all true, but again, disproportionately upsetting for what it is.

“Let us be the judge of that, dearie.” Her voice is mild, but there’s something in her eyes that reproves him for the assumption.

“Of course. My apologies.”

“Master Crowley has been with us for a long time and has more than earned the trust of the villagers here and around. If he brought you with him, there must be a reason. I’ve no wish to pry into business that isn’t mine, but I think this is where you should be, right now.”

“It is an honour, then. Thank you for allowing me to be here.”

She pats his arm. “There’s a sensible lad. Come now.”

He takes his place in the circle and the mother produces a crust of bread. She hands it to Robert, who immediately shakes his head and tries to give it back. Bess and her parents have a fervent, whispered conversation with him, and ultimately the bread is pressed into Robert’s hands.

He places it on Godfrey’s chest and steps back. The father hands Crowley a groat, and he puts the coin in his pocket. The mother gives him a mug of ale. He consumes the bread methodically, alternating it with draughts from the cup.

There is little noise as the ritual is completed, save the child fussing; and Bess hushes it, making quiet, soothing noises. Robert puts his arm around the mother’s shoulders, and she winds one around his waist. They lean on each other, but also seem to draw strength from the contact. The father nudges Robert’s other side and throws his arm around the other man’s shoulders. Samuel cradles his wife, her head resting on his chest.

The last bite of bread is eaten, the mug drained. A low, anticipatory hum, more felt than heard, permeates the room as the humans drift away from each other, standing as they did in the beginning. They all look at Crowley, who makes a gesture Aziraphale swears is lifted from an old Renaissance magic text. (He admits it does look very impressive.)

“Godfrey Brewerson, I take thy sins unto myself, for the ease and rest of thy soul departed. Speed swiftly into the arms of our Lord, blessed in His care for all eternity.”

There is an easing of feeling as the ritual is completed, a sense of closure that was not there before. Crowley talks quietly to the family, who take his hands in theirs, squeezing. Samuel gives him a skin of liquid, presumably wine. He pauses before Robert, who reaches out and shakes his hand without hesitation. Crowley clasps the other man’s hand in both of his and says something to him that relaxes the set of his mouth.

He takes his leave of the family and Robert, catching Aziraphale’s gaze. Before he follows Crowley out the door, he sees the family getting out a long length of white fabric, ready to shroud the body. It reminds him of another family burying a son who also died before his time, and he leaves before the memory threatens to overwhelm him.

—

“I have to admit, this is not what I expected to find you doing here.” Aziraphale takes a drink of the wine given to Crowley by the Brewersons. It’s surprisingly decent.

“Not all mischief is flash, angel. Sometimes the best kind is carried out on the sly. By the time people notice, the damage has been done.” Crowley smiles, the pleased one he gets when he feels like he’s done a good temptation or gotten one over on whoever. Aziraphale should not find it as endearing as he does.

“Consoling people in their time of grief is a strange kind of mischief by any measure, my dear.”

“‘S a side effect. Sin eating contradicts church doctrine and gives humans—or a demon in this case—power over spiritual events. One small act of heresy, disguised as ministry. It’s brilliant, if I say so myself.”

Aziraphale is not sure what to think. It explains the lack of funerals if Crowley is doing what a priest would normally. The definitions of sin, mortal and venial, have changed throughout the millennia, but comfort in grief has never been one of them.

“However it makes you feel better, my dear,” he finally says. Crowley looks at him over the rim and, once again, says nothing.

—

They’re deep into their cups when Crowley asks, “Why are love stories often so bloody tragic? And for that matter, why don’t humans ever learn from them?”

Aziraphale takes a drink and ponders. “Maybe they don’t find them applicable. It is one thing to hear a story, be affected by it even, but quite another to think about its relevance to one’s own life.”

"It’s daft, angel.” He gestures to the book he unceremoniously dumped on his bed. “In fucking Bunyan's opinion, Christian is a stand-in for Everyman, and because male is presumed default, Everywoman too, probably. Why wouldn’t readers assume that in other things?”

“Perhaps instructional stories, like the Progress, are meant to be more universal. How much can a person learn from, say, Hansel and Gretel?”

Crowley’s lips twist into a mirthless smile. “Plenty, I’d say. Those who are supposed to protect and watch over you are capricious. You can only rely on yourself and should watch over those less able than you. A house made of candy exists only for one reason, and it’s never a good one.”

All right, perhaps that was a bad example, even if it’s something he wouldn’t admit out loud.

"Pyramis and Thisbe, then. They tried, and it was terrible luck it didn't work out. Sometimes it happens."

"Still tragic. Luck wouldn't have been an issue if their parents hadn't been so dead-set on discouraging the match."

“The gods recognised it in the end. With, you know. The mulberries.” Aziraphale knows he’s grasping at straws now, but he’s dug this hole, and he is going to sit in it on principle.

“Ah yes, the comfort of having your bad luck memorialised in fruit after death. Like a rainbow after the flood.” The thing about Crowley when he gets in moods like this is that he’s not wrong. Bitter, angry, and worst of all, sad; but painfully, irritatingly correct. Aziraphale really doesn’t like it when he gets like this. His words linger, like a burr in a coat. (Usually also pricking sharpest at the most inopportune time.)

Crowley’s pacing now, up and down the length of the room. “This is even before we consider the barriers humans put up for themselves. Take Robert, poor sod. A town on the other side of the district doesn’t seem too far to go for a chance at happiness.” His voice gets soft. “Don’t know if it was true, but it was love; even I could see that.”

“Perhaps he thought he had time.”

“They’re humans! They never have enough time! Ever! Gather ye rosebuds and all that.”

“Maybe he was scared.” Aziraphale’s voice is quiet.

“How long do you let that control you until the thing you want most is gone?” Crowley’s voice is gentle. Perhaps that is why the blade is able to slip in, stuck to the hilt between Aziraphale’s ribs before he notices he’s hurting.

He sighs, suddenly feeling very spent. “I’m tired, my dear. It’s been a long day. Do you have a more comfortable chair I can spend the night in?”

Crowley’s eyes flicker with something that disappears before Aziraphale can identify it. “I don’t, but you can have the bed. I’ll kip in front of the fire.”

“Nonsense. We’ve slept in the same bed before.” Aziraphale snaps his fingers, and the bed becomes wide enough two people can share it without touching. Also, a little more comfortable.

“If you insist.” Crowley changes his clothing into something more comfortable for sleeping, black and silky with red trim. He gets into the bed, facing away from Aziraphale.

Aziraphale conjures something similar, but in ivory and creme. He slips under the covers until they’re back to back.

“Good night, Crowley.”

“Night, angel.”

He listens as Crowley’s breaths lengthen into slumber. He doesn’t think he’ll get any rest at all, but slowly, eventually, he drifts off.

—

It’s some not-dawn hour when he opens his eyes, the sky thinking of creeping towards light. Crowley leans against the wall, one leg propped up. His hair tumbles loose about his face and it makes him look softer, more vulnerable.

“I hope I didn’t disturb your sleep,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley shakes his head. “Not feeling it tonight. So I guess I’m just here.” Something shifts in Aziraphale’s chest, knowing Crowley would rather keep watch over him than leave the bed to do something else.

“Do you take confessions?” Aziraphale asks.

“What?”

“Before the ritual. If they’re still alive.”

“Sometimes, if they ask. Seems redundant when I’m going to be eating up all their sins anyways.” Crowley looks at him, a smile curling across his face. “Do you have things you’d like to tell me, angel?”

Aziraphale gets up until he can look at Crowley eye to eye. _I’m not as brave as you. I probably will never be. And it pains me, how we stagger between these stolen moments, like crumbs. But still I would not give them up, the way they sustain me._

“No.”

Crowley moves towards him, something of the serpent in the line of his muscle. “Do you have sins you’d like me to absolve for you?”

He sniffs. “Living among humans, who does not?”

“However it makes you feel better,” Crowley repeats, only a little mocking. "The consumption is, of course, symbolic. What would you give to me, angel, that I might shrive you?"

Aziraphale leans over, presses his lips to Crowley's. There's a surprised inhale that turns into a low, needy moan, his mouth opening as if for a benediction. Aziraphale puts a hand to Crowley's cheek, thumb tracing along the line of the bone. He pulls away just enough to murmur against Crowley's skin.

"My breath. Spit. Other things, if you want. Is that acceptable?"

“More than,” Crowley replies. He curls his fingers into the soft hair above Aziraphale’s nape, keeps them close as he licks into Aziraphale’s mouth. There is something patient, measured about the way he explores, the simmering restraint somehow more erotic than fierce abandon.

Aziraphale moves his hand, tangling his fingers into Crowley’s hair. It’s sleek-soft, and the desire to feel it crushed in his palm is there, so he gives in. It’s not hard enough to hurt, but more than enough to shove their mouths together: crashing, misaligned.

Crowley accidentally bites his lower lip, hard enough to draw blood. There’s a flare of pain and then a spike of desire, low in Aziraphale’s belly. Crowley sucks at the broken skin gently: soothing, apologetic. The taste of iron disappears from Aziraphale’s mouth.

Crowley has decided the spot behind Aziraphale’s earlobe is where he wants to focus, teasing with the point of his tongue. Ears are ridiculous things, with more nerve endings than they probably need, although the way Crowley’s breath blows across Aziraphale’s dampened skin convinces him there might be something to their construction.

He kisses a wet line from Aziraphale’s ear down to the hinge of his jaw, the side of his neck. Crowley’s tongue drags against his skin, and he wonders what tastes come off it: salt, certainly; the musk of sweat perhaps; whatever angelic essence clings to his corporation, maybe. (He’s never gotten close enough to any other angel to know what they smell or taste like. He should remember to ask Crowley if there is anything that stands out.)

Crowley’s lips move against him, and it takes Aziraphale a moment to realise he’s speaking. “Oh angel. Angel. You beautiful, delicious thing. I could glut myself on you and it would never be enough.”

"You have me, at least for tonight." What this thing between them is he's not sure, but the dark at least allows him to acknowledge its existence.

He thinks Crowley might say something, but he pushes Aziraphale down, laying on top. A snap of his fingers and they're both undressed, his hands coming up to Aziraphale's face to hold him for a kiss.

There's something yearning, hungry about the way Crowley pushes into his mouth, breathing him in, gently scraping at his bottom lip. He swings a leg over Aziraphale, the core of him warm against Aziraphale's torso.

Aziraphale moans at it, tries to catch Crowley's hips. He's been hard for a while now and having that luscious warmth so close to where he needs it frays his control.

"Don't worry angel, you'll leave satisfied." Crowley lays Aziraphale's hands down against the bed, scoots until he can grasp at Aziraphale's cock. He slicks his palm with the wetness he finds there, spreads it down his length. Aziraphale pushes into it, glad to finally have some friction.

He hears Crowley above him panting, like he’s trying to to hold something back.

“Whatever you need, my dearest. Take it.”

The moon and the banked fire both reflect in Crowley’s eyes, limning the planes of his beautiful face. Spread out like a pagan sacrifice, Aziraphale should feel more vulnerable than he does, but the exposure is clearing somehow, being seen. And there is wonder in Crowley’s gaze, but also other things Aziraphale is afraid to name even in the dark.

Finally, Crowley shifts and sinks down on him: slick, wet, and velvet. He makes a noise, like it’s not enough, and starts to move.

Aziraphale tries to grasp at Crowley’s hips again, bury himself as deep as he can get. Crowley catches one of his hands, kisses at the base of his thumb and the wrist. “I’ve got you. Let me, please?”

He returns his hands to his sides, nods. He gives himself over to Crowley’s pleasure, the sweet dragging chase of his release. It’s exquisite, the tight heat of his cunt around Aziraphale, the moans he makes as Aziraphale hits a particular spot inside him.

His rhythm becomes more erratic, and Aziraphale can feel the tremble building in his thighs.

“Let me see you, darling,” he urges, clenching his fingers into the sheets. “I want it, so very much.”

“Oh angel, angel, _fuck_ —” His words garble into something that might be the syllables of Aziraphale’s name, and he feels the pulse of Crowley’s orgasm around him. It’s almost rapturous, the way it pulls him to his own climax, and he cries out in turn, spilling for what seems like an inordinately long time.

He can feel Crowley breathing heavily against him when he presses their foreheads together, then collapses against his shoulder. Aziraphale curls an arm round him, intending to hold him only for a bit.

—

Aziraphale wakes up to see it is much later than he normally rises. Crowley is sitting at the table, reading more of Pilgrim’s Progress, but looks up when he hears noise from the bed.

“I suppose you’ll be heading on your way, now that you’ve done what you were sent to do.” There’s that forced lightness again, although now it makes something twist in his chest.

“I must. Regretfully.” He doesn’t look at Crowley and concentrates intently on making sure his travelling outfit is complete.

When he can delay no longer, he shoulders his pack and heads towards the door. Crowley follows him to the threshold.

“Thank you for assisting with my investigation, and for your hospitality.”

Crowley quirks an eyebrow, but says nothing. For a moment it feels like he’ll lean forward and do something: reach out, kiss him, Aziraphale doesn’t know. But it passes.

“Drop me a note when you get back to London, yeah?” His voice is rough, even though he’s trying his damndest to be casual about it.

“Of course, my dear.”

“All right. You should probably get going. ‘S a long way to the next town.”

Aziraphale nods, and steps out the door. He doesn’t hear it close, but he will not look back. He rearranges his pack and walks a little faster. Crowley is right; the next town is far away, and it would be wise to make haste.

**Author's Note:**

> You may be familiar with sin eaters from Sleepy Hollow. This was an [actual vocation](https://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/the-worst-paid-freelance-gig-in-history-was-being-the-village-sin-eater) in the 17th and 18th centuries in the UK, although it certainly has roots in older, possibly pagan traditions.
> 
> Milton wrote a pair of incredibly popular pastoral poems, [L'Allegro](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44731/lallegro) and [Il Penseroso](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44732/il-penseroso). It is absolutely certain the two of them would have known of their existence.


End file.
